Contents (85)
- Contents
- Part I
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Twenty-One
- Twenty-Two
- Twenty-Three
- Twenty-Four
- Twenty-Five
- Twenty-Six
- Twenty-Seven
- Twenty-Eight
- Twenty-Nine
- Part II
- Thirty
- Thirty-One
- Thirty-Two
- Thirty-Three
- Thirty-Four
- Thirty-Five
- Thirty-Six
- Thirty-Seven
- Thirty-Eight
- Thirty-Nine
- Forty
- Forty-One
- Forty-Two
- Forty-Three
- Part III
- Forty-Four
- Forty-Five
- Forty-Six
- Forty-Seven
- Forty-Eight
- Forty-Nine
- Fifty
- Fifty-One
- Fifty-Two
- Fifty-Three
- Fifty-Four
- Fifty-Five
- Fifty-Six
- Fifty-Seven
- Fifty-Eight
- Fifty-Nine
- Sixty
- Sixty-One
- Sixty-Two
- Sixty-Three
- Sixty-Four
- Sixty-Five
- Sixty-Six
- Sixty-Seven
- Sixty-Eight
- Sixty-Nine
- Seventy
- Seventy-One
- Seventy-Two
- One
- Two
- Reading Group Guide
- A Conversation with the Author
- Acknowledgments
- About the Author
Now, in his bed, he thumbed open Sharp’s third book and opened to page 108.
Chapter 12. He’d just read it for the first time earlier in the day.
All in all, a seemingly inconsequential chapter, unless it ended up taking on greater importance later in the book. In the chapter, Detective Jenna Black recounted an old case of hers to a work colleague. A case she was proud to have finally solved after it had gone cold years ago.
The case involved the death of a forty-year-old man. Turned out, Black told her colleague, he’d been killed by his wife.
The colleague inquired about the method of killing.
And this was the part that sent a thousand-watt jolt right through Colin when he’d first read Jenna Black’s answer in the pages of chapter 12.
A mixture of alcohol and sleep medication.
Eight
Bury, New Hampshire
August 12
I jolt awake, sweat basting the back of my neck. It takes a few seconds to orient myself.
I’m in a bed. Nighttime. I’m at…Dad’s house.
It was a dream.
It was the dream.
I throw the sheets off and jump out of bed, not wanting my mind to replay that last scene, over and over. My limbs are weak, but the horror soon releases a nice shot of adrenaline in my system. Nature’s methamphetamine.
I can’t. Not again.
Bedside table. I flip my phone over. It’s 3:22 a.m.
Tonight’s dream was worse than normal. So vivid, as if I were reliving it all over again. From experience, I know it’ll take at least two hours to fall back asleep, at which point it will be close to my alarm time. And I’m not going to lie there and let the imagery eat me. Not tonight.
Into the bathroom, light on, the harshness of which hits me like high beams from an oncoming truck. I see myself in the mirror, wince against my reflection. I don’t want to be real, to exist. Not right now.
God, how good it would feel to smash my fist into the glass, see my image burst in a thousand shards. I can taste it. The pain. The blood.
I resist. It’s not easy.
I allow one long stare at myself, my gaze full of accusation, diminishment, maybe even hate.
I spring into action, needing to do something with this burning self-loathing, needing to sweat the toxins out of me. Hair pulled tight in a ponytail. Throw on running shorts, sports bra, Dri-FIT tank, HOKA sneakers. Down the stairs to the main level. Punch the code into the keypad, disarm the house. Out the front door. No phone, no headphones, no Fitbit, no water, no headlamp, no plan, nothing.
And I run.
Streetlights glow against my wishes. I want to run in complete darkness. Maybe then I could fall off a cliff or smash headfirst into a tree. Then they could tell my son my death was an accident.
I tire quickly, because jumping out of bed in the middle of the night and sprinting is a foolish idea.